


One more shot, another round

by Aaren



Series: Family vacations! [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: (Emotional) Walls going down, Alfred using the well-tested grand-parent technique of, Bruce Wayne is a dad that made bad mistakes, But is trying really hard, Canon ye be warned, Everybody is trying really hard in this one, Gen, Getting better through trying to ruin your own life, I may be the worst author you've heard of, I'm yelling TIMBER, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd vs Titus Andronicus, Look Ma no Roy!, Rhato 25 and 27 do not exist here, Standing by my failboat children's side like Jack Sparrow arriving in Port Royal., The ninja-way, communicating, sneakily feeding your grandkids until they've calmed down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 03:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaren/pseuds/Aaren
Summary: Trust.It was as hard to give as it was to receive. And it was even harder to rebuild, after years of hurting each other. Good thing that they were nothing if not stubborn.In a family of lunatics with gigantic trust issues, manipulative impulses, and greater spying skills, well.... It's not exactly as easy as it looks.Not that it looked easy in the first place. More like the 'Kalalau' than a walk in the park, really.Bringing Jason back in the fold, one conversation at a time.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> Welcome back to this trainwreck! I hope you're all enjoying yourselves. I sure am. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything even remotely recognisable as belonging to DC comics or any other franchise.  
> Second disclaimer: the opinions of the characters do not represent the opinions of the author. I feel like I should say this, now, considering the second chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you all have fun reading. I love you all!

_**Now:** _

 

There was something very wrong with one of the flight attendants.

They’d been in the air for a while by the time Bruce noticed. But once he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was undeniably amiss.

He took a sip of his complimentary champagne, relaxing in his seat, and kept a carefree expression on even as he started analyzing him.

He wasn’t entirely sure yet why he had triggered his instincts. Simply that he had. Bruce’s entire being was screaming at him that he had to pay attention. That he was not what he appeared to be.

He looked normal enough. Clean, pressed uniform, dark skin, black hair that was neatly gelled back. On the small side, maybe, though still above the company’s minimum height requirements. His small height was not that noticeable, well compensated by his slightly elevated shoes.

It was no behavioral oddity either. He seemed perfectly at home in the plane. He knew where everything was and what he had to do. He did his job quickly, efficiently, and politely with a perfect smile. He did not move like he was dangerous or had received any particular training.

And yet.

There was something very wrong with one of the flight attendants.

He took another sip of champagne, doing his best not to let his brow furrow. In the spacious seat next to him, seated with his knees brought up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, and his laptop playing some brightly colored superhero movie in front of him, Tim chuckled. On his other side clad in a once-perfect, though now-wrinkled, suit slept Dick, cheek firmly smudged in his brother’s shoulder. He’d passed out ten minutes into the flight, about enough time for him to put on some noise-cancelling headphones and for Tim to settle in comfortably before being used as a pillow.

Bruce sent them a fond look. In the frenzy the last few years had been, they hadn’t managed to get much time together as civilians. Or as vigilante partners.

He was glad that somehow, despite everything, they still had the opportunity to.

Tim smiled back, a laughing glint shining bright in his blue eyes, before turning his attention back to the screen. Bruce pushed a snack in his hand, silently but firmly conveying that Tim was to eat it without arguing. Tim always could use more calories. Particularly when recovering from a cold like he currently was.

He rolled his eyes, but complied, taking care not to dislodge Dick with the movement, ears burning a pleased red. Bruce leaned back in his seat and concentrated on the flight attendant again, mouth pinched.

He couldn’t see any clues leading to the presence of a concealed weapon anywhere on his person but someone talented could and would hide them well enough to escape his notice.

Times like these, flying 33 000 feet up in the air, in civilian gear, surrounded by unknowns, and with two unsuspecting sons seated right next to him were when Bruce became all too aware of his own limitations.

Batman observed as the airline steward smiled coldly at a particularly annoying passenger. As he rarely turned his back to the blatantly disguised Pamela Isley, wearing a wide brimmed hat and designer sunglasses, seated three rows away from them. He observed the slight reluctance he held towards the rest of the crew.

That was it, he realized, as he watched Tim thank him for bringing the second glass of water he’d asked for.

The distance. The small cracks in his facade. The barely noticeable twitch of his left eyebrow as Bruce’s third son smiled sunnily up at him.

He kept a sigh from escaping.

“Excuse me, sir.” He said casually, getting up. He flashed a flirty smile, for the sake of the rest of the crew. “A word? In private, if you please.”

The complete lack of reaction – tension, joy, any show of emotion other than the cold professionalism of his small nod – was as damning as apparent fear would have been. As was the trust displayed in the way the flight attendant turned his back to him in order to lead him to a small isolated cabin, further down the length of the plane.

Earning that trust, however, had been an entirely different kettle of fish.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, once the door was closed.

“My job, Mr Wayne.” Was the reply that was blinked innocently his way.

Bruce frowned, not fooled in the slightest by the poor act.

“Take off your mask.” He didn’t comply, of course not. Nothing was that easy with him. “Now, Damian. I will not ask a third time.”

His youngest’s scowling face was a familiar, though not unwelcome, sight. The crossed arms and furious glare, even dimmed by the brown-tinted contact lenses he was still wearing, were unnecessary.

He silently waited for an explanation.

“As I said, Father, I was merely doing my job.”

“We had an agreement.”

“Wasting valuable time in that usel-”

“We had. An agreement.” Bruce repeated, in a firmer tone. “One that you deliberately defied.”

Even if it had been in a remarkable show of spying and infiltration work.

It was a testimony to how far they’d come that Damian only tensed the way any other child would at the certainty that he was in trouble.

“I apologize.” He said, stiffly, sounding like the words had burned the entire way out of his mouth.

Bruce gave him a nod.

Progress was progress and was always to be encouraged.

“Two weeks.” He said, knowing his son would immediately understand what he was talking about.

Not being allowed to be Robin for the next weeks was a mere tap on the wrist, really. Even if, going by his outraged expression, Damian didn’t seem to realize that just yet.

Then again, he wasn’t supposed to.

But he simply nodded, swallowing back the words that would have landed him in even more trouble. Bruce gave him a small smile.

“I’m proud of your progress, Damian.” He added. “I want you to know that.”

His youngest shrugged nonchalantly, but his pleased flush betrayed him.

“What gave me away?” He asked.

Not much, if Bruce was to be entirely honest with himself. If it hadn’t been for an unnamed instinct, the prickling in the back of his neck that had appeared in his life at the same time Dick did, he might not have noticed anything was wrong until even later.

“Very little.” He decided to praise again. Damian tried to hide a shark-like grin, this time. “Your interactions with the other crew members.”

His interactions with Tim, mostly. However, mindful of the quite recent and still very tenuous peace his house was benefiting from, Bruce did not voice that thought.

But why had Damian chosen that role? His son was usually too proud, too independent to allow himself to be put in a position where he’d have to serve anyone. Even to presumably keep an eye on Poison Ivy. Even on an infiltration mission. His first impulse should have been to disguise himself as the pilot or, at last resort, another passenger.

He was missing something.

Bruce Wayne didn’t appreciate missing things that forced his children to act in any way out of character.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.”

Jason’s voice cheerfully sounded through the intercom.

“We are cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet at an airspeed of 400 miles per hour; so anyone presently looking to jump off the plane should definitely think about bringing some oxygen and identifying tags with them. They should also probably be aware that if they didn’t bring their own, the amount of parachutes available on this plane is very limited, rounding up to a glorious total of zero. Looking at you, Pam. Now for the good news: Local time at destination is 8:25 am. The weather looks good enough from where I’m standing and with the tailwind on our side we are expecting to land in Honolulu in approximately thirty minutes. Which is way ahead of schedule, you’re very welcome for that, by the way. The cabin crew will be coming around shortly to carry on the final safety check. Do treat them respectfully, they’re not there to cater to your every entitled whim. Common decency, people, seriously. My brother bitches enough as it is on a normal day.”

Damian scowled, crossing his arms. Bruce closed his eyes in pained defeat. He’d known. He’d known Jason and Damian had agreed way too easily to his plan for it to be in any way natural.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, you may also notice one of the flight attendants viciously attacking an internationally famous criminal. Don’t mind them. Instead, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are up. Make sure your seat belts is securely fastened and all your bags are stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. Or don’t. It’s really not my problem if you want a concussion that much. I’m not getting paid for this. Thank you for flying Air Red Hood. We hope not to see you again anytime soon.”

There was a faint, distant, ‘God, I always wanted to do this speech.’, then the sound cut from the intercom completely.

A few nervous chuckles sounded around the rows of passengers. Bruce made his way back to his seat.

He sat back in it, sighing, and looked out of the plane’s window.

Tim was outright snickering now, red-faced, and about as far from the image of Timothy Drake-Wayne the public was always expecting him to present as he could.

If Bruce let a tired smile slip, as he looked down at the vast expanse of the sea below, well… No one needed to find out.

“Okay, what on _earth_ did I miss?” Asked Dick, taking his headphones off, trying to simultaneously blink himself awake and blearily stare at Bruce.

 


	2. If in exchange for your time, I give you this smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of the discussions between Jason and Bruce. Drastic change of tone between this chapter and the last, you're warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to sad town. Angst central. I lured you in with pilot!Jason and now you get sad!Jason. I'm only midly sorry. You'll get the rest of pilot!jason's wonky adventures soon, I promise.  
> Trigger warning for mentions of child abuse and discussions of killing. Once more, I feel like I should say that the character's opinions aren't necesserarily my own. That said:  
> Tim Drake in the entire week leading to this fic, standing on Bruce's torso with his hands on either side of Bruce's face, peering in it from way too close and with a demented look in his eyes: "Talk to your son, Bruce. Taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalk to your son. "  
> "Tim?"  
> "Taaalk. Talking. You need it. He needs it. I need it."  
> "Tim, are you alright?"  
> "I will plan it for you. We will train in the art of talking. Learn the dos and don'ts. We will do drills. I will give you a comm and walk you through it, if that's what it takes."  
> "How long has it been since you last slept?"  
> "Because you are not going to fuck this up for me, Bruce. You are not."  
> "Okay?"  
> "I worked too hard, for too long."  
> "Yes, I think we can both see that."  
> Have... fun?

 

_**Then:** _

 

Jason Todd was always supposed to become a bad person.

As a kid, he'd been told as much in dirty looks and clutched handbags. In careful avoidance and heads held up high, eyes straight ahead. In «you look just like your 'da »s, « Help him? Ha! Todd, your boy's out of his damned mind”s, and numerous “Fuck off, rat.”s that had been kicked into him, whether he'd actually been doing anything or just standing there, breathing.

But Jason’s head had also always been of the hard sort and despite the many, many reiterations, he'd never believed a single word of it.

Survival had forced him to compromise on some points, sure. But like everyone else he'd had lines he wouldn’t cross. Not for anything.

Then had come Bruce.

Bruce and his “Show me you can do this”s. His “Good job today, Jason”s. His “How was school, Jay-lad?”s.

He'd been _Robin_.

And for the first time since his mom's death, he'd had somebody that believed in him. That had wanted him for exactly who he was.

It hadn’t lasted long, that was for damn sure.

Jason swallowed and roughly swept a hand across his eyes, hoping the redness wouldn’t show if he crossed paths with anyone on his way out of the Manor. He put the yellowed photo of him and Bruce back down on the nightstand.

He hadn’t realized walking back in this old _shrine_ of a room would have that much of an impact on him.

He changed his mind and carefully placed the photo in the cardboard box that had been dumped unceremoniously on the small bed, not twenty minutes before. He kept it flat, protected, with his battered copy of ‘The Two Towers'.

“Jason?”

He didn’t stiffen, but it was a near thing.

“I thought you were on patrol.” He said, his back still to the doorway. He closed the box, then turned around. Bruce's eyes immediately focused on the red of his. So much for that. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“I was.” He acknowledged, now looking around the room, barely holding back a flinch. Jason scowled. “You don’t need to go. What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of some old shit.”

He clenched his jaw, eyes burning cold, daring Batman to try to stop him.

“It’s yours.” Said Bruce, simply.

“Is it, really?” Sneered Jason.

“It’s yours.” Repeated Bruce. He entered the room. Some distant part of Jason noticed his hair was still wet, though whether it was from the rain outside, the workout, or his post-patrol shower, he had no clue. “Do you want any help?”

He even knew better than to use dangerous words like 'need', by now. He obviously wasn’t looking for a fight.

“Why? Want to make sure I don’t kill whatever’s left of your perfect little soldier?”

Jason was.

Bruce stiffened, but did not rise to the bait.

He'd been in a rare decent mood, for the last few days.

“No. My son-” He enunciated clearly. “- is standing right in front of me. And is capable of deciding what he wants to do with his own belongings without any external influence.”

Why was it that the only few times Bruce was actually good with words were when he wielded them like weapons?

“What’s going on, Jay? I thought I had made that point clear.”

It was said in his 'Tell me what’s wrong, Robin.' voice, too. Jason hated him a little for that. For suddenly deciding to become competent when he wanted it the least. Because he'd been trying so, so hard in the last week or so, ever since Tim had decided to worm his nose somewhere it didn’t belong, and Jason didn’t have a clue how to deal with that.

He sat on his old bed, next to the box, deflating. Bruce took the desk chair. He looked ridiculous trying to fit his gigantic frame in the too-small seat. A black-ish bruise had snaked its way up his throat, past his turtleneck. Jason stared at it. It was easier than looking at the piercing eyes trained on him.

He took a deep breath. “You know how I accepted your offer? Last week?”

“Yes, I do tend to remember adopting my children, Jay.” He said dryly, though not without adding a touch of humor. Jason sent him the most scathing glare he could dredge up. Bruce tensed at that, all traces of amusement disappearing like they’d never been there in the first place. “You’ve changed your mind.” His face blanked. “If that’s what you need. There are plans I can put into place if you're not-”

“No.” Jason cut him off, quickly, before his voice could get any more painfully robotic. “I- No, I haven’t. That’s not it.”

God knew why, but he hadn’t.

And he'd thought he'd made the worst decision he could have concerning parental figures of dubious quality when he'd gone after Sheila.

Turned out life could always prove you a little more wrong with each day that passed.

Bruce closed his eyes, for a split-second. When he opened them again, the robot was gone.

“Then what’s wrong.”

He wasn’t asking anymore.

The single worst possible approach to take with Jason, really. But he'd been given a pass for being shitty at the start of the conversation, so he'd return the favor, this one time.

But only because, like he'd said, Bruce had been trying hard.

“I thought it'd be easier, coming back once in awhile if there weren’t, you know, some shrine to everything I'm not where my bedroom used to be.”

It'd been easier being in the Cave since the case had gone, after all.

His tone darkened.

“Because I'm not. I'm not him anymore. I've been through enough shit that it changed me. And what happens when you finally realize that there's not enough of him left?”

What happened to him when he screwed up enough that Batman couldn’t take it anymore? When he used his last chance and Bruce threw him away? When Bruce used him one time too many and Jason finally had enough?

He looked up.

Bruce had a small, nostalgic, smile playing at his lips. He'd put his every weakness out there in the open, and the bastard was sitting there, laughing.

“My fifteen years old son-” He began. Jason made to interrupt and was leveled with a calm, almost fond, look. It startled him into silence. “-loved chilidogs and books. He loved proving me wrong at every turn. He was brave and compassionate, had an attitude a mile wide and a hair trigger when it came to his temper. He never hesitated to tell people exactly what he thought in no uncertain terms and God knows you only had to label something as forbidden to make sure he was all over it.” Jason snorted, wetly. Quietly. Thankfully, Bruce didn’t try to touch him. “Most importantly, he never once balked at doing what was necessary in order to help people. Do I need to go on?”

“No. Stop it. Stop that.” He tried to scowl, rubbing at his eyes again. “When the fuck did you get any good at the mushy stuff.”

Unnatural is what it was.

Bruce frowned, almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t. Tim pointed out the puzzle piece I was missing. He helped me see what I needed to do.” Helped him plan what he needed to do, more like. “My point is, Jason, you’ve changed, but not that much.”

Oh, like it was that easy. Like years of hurting each other could just be swept under the rug with a nice, clean, flick of the wrist.

Jason frowned, very perceptibly.

“Your fifteen years old son didn’t kill.”

Hadn’t tortured. Hadn’t worked with the worst part of Gotham’s underworld. Hadn’t been a crime lord. Controlling the drug trade, no less. Of all things.

But he still did what was necessary and still had lines he wouldn’t cross. Not for anything.

“No.” Bruce agreed, matter-of-factly. “You didn’t.”

“What a great time for you to decide to start believing me on that.”

Bruce was unamused. A flash of....something deserted his face before he could manage to identify it.

Well, Jason wasn’t feeling particularly all that cheery himself.

“Would you still have gone looking for her? If I’d shown you that I did.”

And now it was his turn to hold all the cards. He could easily add a layer of guilt to Bruce’s already extensive amount, bruise his heart a little more, with a simple no.

Three, four, years ago? He'd have jumped at the chance. Torn through every wall until Bruce either fixed it or hurt as much as Jason did.

After everything? Not so much.

“Probably, yeah.” He absentmindedly played with the edge of the old linens. “I needed to meet her. Not all of that was about you.”

“Not all. But part of it, then.” Bruce said, voice tight.

“Jesus, you really do expect constant perfection, don’t you?” Jason scoffed, voice no better. “Out of all the things to feel bad about, why d'ya have to choose the one I don’t actually blame you for?”

“You don’t.”

You should, Bruce said with his eyes, I do. Every day.

“Blame you for my death?” He snorted. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Hell no. I went and got my ass killed all by myself, thank you very much. It's all that happened after I’ve got a problem with.”

“You were fifteen. A child.” And the robot was back. “I shouldn't have-”

“No.” Jason cut him off sharply, eyes wet, voice hard. “Fuck off. You know what you should have done?”

A tired exhale.

“I’m not going to kill Joker.”

“Well, that too. But no. If you'd really cared the slightest bit about my well-being, then you should never have taken me back to Ethiopia.”

Bruce blanched. His fists spasmed, clutching the fabric of his pants legs tightly.

“How do you expect me to believe you if I'm always going to be some sort of expendable option compared to the others? You don’t do that shit to people you care about.”

“I-” He started, voice roughened with emotion. Grief? Regret? Something along those lines. Fat load of good it did Jason, years after the fact. “I’m- Can I come closer?”

A few heartbeats of tense silence passed before he gave a nod. When he did, Bruce went the safe, not overwhelming, route and simply sat next to him and took his hand, waiting for him to decide whether or not to initiate more contact his own.

Just like when he’d first arrived in the Manor. That Bruce could be that good at this only brought the times he fell short in starker contrast.

“I’m sorry. I'm so sorry for putting you through that. I-” And he was stopping himself again. Actual, sincere, apologies and stuttering? Jason was beginning to think he'd broken him. It didn’t feel half as good as he'd thought it would, back then. “There’s no excusing what I did. I was desperate.”

Desperate to get Damian back, yeah, he'd gotten the gist.

Quite thoroughly so.

Thing was, sometimes, ‘sorry’ just wasn’t good enough.

“Yeah, you see, you say that. Then, the next crisis pops up. Or I do something you disagree with. And I'm back to being the acceptable sacrifice.”

“You're not.” Bruce stated. “Of course you’re not. How can you even think that?”

'I’m going to help Gotham. Save her.’, ‘You’re going to be fine.’, ‘If I had a week, I couldn’t list all the reasons why that wouldn’t work.’, ‘ You’re not.’

They were all said in that tone of absolute certainty Bruce was frighteningly convincing with.

“I promise you, I am going to do better. You will never be put through that again.”

Jason had heard too many variations of that very same line before.

“Oh, will you? ‘Cause that sounds a whole lot like what Willis used to say, back when he sobered up. Want to throw a 'But I wouldn’t have had to do it if you hadn’t done that shit.' in with that? Complete the picture?”

Bruce stilled. Froze, statue-worthy, back ramrod straight. He couldn’t have done a better imitation of a rock if he’d just decided to have a staring contest with Medusa. Jason winced, dragging his hand roughly through his hair.

Too far.

Considering the circumstances, at least.

“I didn’t mean that.” He hadn’t, not really. “I didn’t. It's not the same. You're not like him.” He gave Bruce's shoulder a small push with his own, to try to get him to react “C’mon, old man, you have to know that.”

Still, he said nothing.

Figures. The one time Bruce was actually willing to talk and apologize, and he managed to screw it up in under ten minutes.

“You always were direct.” He said in a low voice after what felt like an eternity, self-deprecatingly.

At least he was talking. At least he hadn’t left the room. Thrown Jason’s words back in his face and gone to blow off some steam back out on patrol.

He’d thought it himself. Bruce had been trying in the last week. In the last year, really.

Fuck it.

This molding ruin of a relationship wasn’t going to repair itself single-handedly.

“Yeah. Want to know why?”

Bruce abandoned his pity-party to focus on him again.

The Bat.

Not always talking, but sure as fuck always listening. Whether or not he decided to ignore or act upon said information, of course, was anyone’s guess.

“ ’Cause one day, I decided I could, no matter what anyone tried to do about it. Do you think I could have had this discussion with him?”

Not that being a better parent than Willis Todd had been was all that high on the compliment scale. Still. Jason wasn’t going to let him be an idiot about the things he shouldn’t feel bad about when there was so much more to actually scream in each other’s face about.

“Do you think he tried to change my mind or offered second chances when we disagreed?”

Something dark, furious, crossed his adoptive father’s face. Anger. The true and tried way of pulling Bruce’s head out of his ass.

“You deserved better.”

Or pushing it further in.

Double-edged sword, really.

“I got better.” Jason insisted. “For a time. Until-”

Well. Until everything else happened. Until he’d come back furious and hurt and even more determined to clean up the streets than he’d ever been.

“Until.” Bruce agreed in a bland voice.

Time for the second true and tried way of pushing Bruce’s head so far up his ass it might come back up on the other side and allow for some talking.

His goddamned moral code.

“What would you do if I killed Joker?”

Incidentally, also one of the things Jason really needed to know about.

In a movement so fast they could almost hear the crack of his vertebrae, Batman’s head turned to examine him.

“Are you planning to?” His voice was razor-sharp.

“What if I am? For monsters like him, the system's useless. I can’t just stay there and do nothing.”

“I’m never going to agree with your way of doing things.” Bruce said, unyielding. “There’s always another, more humane, solution.”

“Fuck, but you still believe he can be saved, don’t you?” He asked, eyes wide.

“Everyone can be saved, Jason.” His voice was tired. “I can't not believe that. I _can’t_ not fight for that.”

“He _killed_ me.”

He looked pained, but said nothing. Instead he just squeezed his hand tight.

Wow. Pained. Jason was really feeling the love, there. Great dad-ing. A+. Oh welp, my adopted street-rat died. Better show at least _some_ measure of sad. Let’s dial it back a bit, though. Wouldn’t want to bother his murderer with all these feelings I don’t have.

He laughed.

It came out somewhat more bitter than he had intended it to be.

“And they call Superman the optimist.”

“You haven’t given up on Gotham yet either.” Bruce pointed out.

“Fine. So we're both delusional idiots. That still doesn’t stop him from hurting more people.”

“No, it doesn’t. That’s what we're for.”

“Exactly!” He threw his hand up, exasperated. The one Bruce wasn’t still holding like a lifeline. Or like he could keep him there, talking, mostly calm, in civilian clothing, in the Manor with the sheer strength of his grip. Worst thing was? It was working. “When’s it gonna end, Bruce? Because he won’t stop. And more lives will get destroyed in the process.”

“He might not be innocent. But he's still sentient. He's still one of those lives you're talking about.”

“But how many others is he worth to you?” He was getting desperate.”How many is it gonna take?”

“No one should be an acceptable casualty.” Bruce said, softly. “No death should be swept aside. No life is worth more or less than another, no matter their actions or the amount of money they own. You can’t quantify a life's worth. Not even in other lives.”

And Jason hated him, hated him so much more because he knew where that unending hatred for death came from and he couldn’t even reasonably blame him for it.

Hated him so much more because that was what made Bruce a hero. What made it so Bruce had not given up on him yet, either.

Unreasonably, though?

“So we're no better than he is, is that it?” He snarled.

“To me, you're all worth so much more.” And now he sounded sad. “But the minute I allow myself to think like that, I become unfit for the role of Batman.”

It was all real pretty in theory. Except for some minor details. Like comparing his kids to, you know, a psychopathic piece of shit. Or the fact that it would never work, in real life.

Just saying.

“The fuck? You're allowed to have feelings.”

“What makes me fit for the roles of judge, jury and executioner? What criterion's do I draw the line at? Every killer has their list of reasons why their kill was acceptable.”

“I am _nothing_ like him.” He spat out.

“You’re nothing like him.” Bruce agreed. “But once you cross that line, when do you stop?”

“Pretty simple.” He felt rage start stirring inside him, tinting his vision green, pushing the indignation and misery away. “Rape, bad. Selling children, bad. Thievery, okay. Rinse, repeat.”

“And killing?” Asked Bruce, voice hard, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, pick the hard choice right away, why don’t you? But you can’t tell me there’s a situation where raping someone is okay or done in self-defense.” He sighed. “I’m not arguing we should kill every single criminal, B. But some of them just won't change. And because of that, the victims won't ever recover. Remember Gloria?”

Cheap shot, but pretty effective.

“If you want to think in those terms, what about the impact his death would have?”

“We could deal with the power vacuum he'd leave! We could prepare. Plans are what you do.”

“But not without losing more lives.”

“More lives than he'd destroy?”

“If we work efficiently, then yes.”

Words, meet Guilt Wall. Jason resisted the urge to bang his head repeatedly against it. Or his fist against Bruce’s face.

Same difference.

“That would not be the only adverse effect caused by Joker's death.”

“Oh, do enlighten me.”

“Harley’s every hope of recovery could be lost. Who knows what repercussions his death could have on her psyche.”

“I could tell you what effect his being alive has.” He sneered.

Bruce’s eyes grew sharper, if that was even possible. Jason held back a flinch. Could the man in fact manage to weaponize _everything_?

“Would you consider therapy?” He asked, blunt as always, immediately seizing the opportunity.

“What?”

“Would yo-”

“No, I heard you. Just...what?” He knew that was not all there was to it, but did he think that- “I’m not crazy.”

“No. You deserve to be happy.”

“What?”

Bruce said nothing more, staring steadfastly at him.

“That one you were supposed to repeat.” Murmured Jason, still taken aback.

He could see Tim’s hands all over this, too.

He’d been learning since coming back to life that that wasn’t always such a bad thing. But accepting that easily felt a whole lot like trust.

He didn’t have the best track-record when it came to trust.

“So that’s it?” He asked after a minute or two of uncomfortable, invasive, staring to put pressure on his pensive silence. “You send me to therapy, hoping it changes my mind. I ‘see the light’ and ‘stray away from the path of evil’ –” He added air quotes to that. “–or some other unnecessarily cliché bullshit, and we both completely ignore the points I just made? Happy endings all around?”

“No.” Bruce countered. “You can go to therapy. Or you can choose not to. Either way, the decision is yours.”

Not denying the rest of it, he couldn’t help but notice.

“Why, then?”

“I told you why.” He said. “But if you need another reason, because it helped.”

“Helped whom?” He shook his head ruefully. “Harley? Joker? Two-face?” He laughed. “Scarecrow?”

“Me.”

How many emotional gut-punches could he take before they stopped stealing his breath away?

“That’s not when you were saying eight years ago.” He scoffed.

“It hadn’t helped me yet eight years ago.” Was the blunt reply. And really, he didn’t know why he was still surprised by it, the man _had_ always managed to find ways to weaponize his trauma. “You’re not the only one your death changed, Jason.”

“So what? Agree to disagree? And that’s supposed to be enough?”

“It might have to be.” Bruce said, with something almost soft chipping away at his voice. “That is, if you're still willing to try mending things between us.”

And Jason. Jason was tired of it. All of it. Tired of always wondering if this time, it would be too much. The straw that’d break the camel’s back. Tired of jumping from safehouse to safehouse. Tired of being left behind.

“Are you? Really?”

He wanted so much more.

“I want to.” Bruce answered. “I’m tired of losing you.”

Jason tucked himself under his arm.

“Good. But if you ever pull shit like Ethiopia again, I’m out. For good.”

He knew full well he was lying. Even if he wished he wasn’t.

Bruce swallowed roughly and hugged him closer to his side.

“For what little it's worth, I really am sorry, Jason.” He whispered.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“I’m not the one you should apologize to.”

Not the only one, maybe.

“You're not usually this verbose.” He said, instead of acknowledging the point. He wiped his eyes, and Bruce mercifully pretended not to notice, again, choosing instead to peruse in the cardboard box he was next to. His arm didn’t move from where it was draped over his shoulders, though.

“I don’t usually need to be.”

“Dick would beg to differ.”

“I’ve made mistakes with all of you.” Bruce allowed. “That is going to change.”

Jason pulled away and stood up, a little amazed at how _not_ badly the discussion had gone. At finally hearing what he’d needed to hear, years and years ago.

He’d not had his back turned for three seconds that-

“Is this what you’re choosing to throw away?”

He had the box open on the bed and was rummaging in it.

“Hands off.” He snapped. “And no. That’s what I’m taking back to my apartment. I’m throwing away everything else.”

“Everything?”

“I thought I could do what I wanted with my own belongings?”

“You can, of course.” He also stood up, casting a critical eye over the room.

Anything he tried to get rid off was going to be squirreled away in some dusty corner of the attic, wasn’t it? So much for the grand declarations of trust.

Not happening. There was stuff in this room he was disposing of. And if he had to set it on fire in the middle of the Cave, while aggressively roasting marshmallows over the blaze and glaring straight in Batman’s disapproving cowl lenses to do it, then he would.

“Stay the night.” Bruce offered. “It’s late. I can drive us to the donation boxes with what you don’t wish to keep tomorrow.”

“I- Yeah. That’d be nice.”

Sorry wasn’t good enough on its own. But combined with a lot of efforts, it could be a good start.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! I am absoutely blown away by the amount of enthousiasm you gave the first chapter. I am going to answer your comments, I just haven't had enough time to do it yet. But thank you so, so much for every one of them. If I treasured them any more, there would be unfortunate comparisons to be made with Gollum.  
> Seriously, they make my day.  
> So, as you might have guessed, the first few chapters of this fics are going to be the events leading up to the prologue, and then we'll get to the actual fun. It gets happier pretty quickly, though, don't worry. Like, next scene pretty quickly. They just have a lot to talk about to get better.  
> See you soon and as always, have a nice day!

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, I bring you the first part of this fic before the end of february! Look at me, respecting the delays I set for myself for once!  
> You might think the summary has absolutely nothing to do with the contents of the prologue. Just you wait. *Aaron Burr starts singing wait for it in the background.*  
> Now, the end of this fic's written, but there are still two scenes giving me ungodly amounts of trouble. Including the one directly after the prologue. Because *spoiler alert* Jason and Bruce just won't stop talking to each other. Yeah, you read that right. They won't shut up. I know, considering the other fics in this series, it's pretty darn ironic. And they're not even punching each other in the face in order to debate important things. I'm shocked too.  
> So I'm still working on those two, then hopefully the rest of this will be posted. I promise it won't take six months this time.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and please tell me what you thought?  
> Have a nice day!


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